


Deck The Halls With Lines of Sharpie

by rlnerdgirl



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Building Relationship, Canon verse, Christmas, Derek's excited for everybody to come home for Christmas break, Future Fic, M/M, Pre-Slash, Romance, Sharpies, body art?, group as friends, particularly for Stiles to come home
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-18
Updated: 2012-12-18
Packaged: 2017-11-21 10:54:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,784
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/596928
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rlnerdgirl/pseuds/rlnerdgirl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Derek has been enjoying the holidays and looking forward to everybody making their way home from college for Christmas break. Particularly, he's been looking forward to seeing Stiles, who missed coming home for Thanksgiving.</p>
<p>So seeing Stiles a little early is fantastic. Smelling the sharp chemical sting of Sharpie on Stiles isn't all that pleasant, but it's no big deal. Noticing Stiles trying his utmost to hide what's been drawn on him, however, piques Derek's interest.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Deck The Halls With Lines of Sharpie

**Author's Note:**

  * For [relenafanel](https://archiveofourown.org/users/relenafanel/gifts).



**Stiles:**

_Flight just landed and Dad’s on shift. You up to give me a ride?_

 

Derek frowns down at the text, mainly out of confusion more than anything else. He knows the arrival time of everybody’s flights, the first of which comes in tomorrow, the eighteenth, and the last of which arrives early on the twenty-first. Stiles isn’t set to arrive until noon on the nineteenth, two days from now. Well—Derek checks the time on his phone—a day and a half.

 

Not that it matters. He shoots of a quick response of,

 

_Be there in 30._

 

before dumping the hot chocolate he’d been drinking into a thermos and grabbing his leather jacket and keys before heading out to the Camero.

 

When he pulls up to United arrivals, Stiles is standing out at the curb leaning against the thick pillar with his duffle and backpack at his feet. He’s still the same mess of long limbs he was back in high school, but solid now, more so than he was when he was playing uncoordinated lacrosse he’d played in his teens. The surprise is seeing Stiles weathering the chill of Beacon Hills winter in just a t-shirt, his traditional plaid button up and nice winter coat he’d started off with in Massachusetts slung in the crook of his arm.

 

Despite supposedly being distracted by his phone, Derek notes the way Stiles’ gaze flickers from his screen to his surrounding every few seconds, how he shifts, unconsciously and without directly looking, to the approach and retreat of the bustle of people around him. A few years ago, he would have felt guilty—felt responsible for the development of ever present alertness and wary paranoia in a human kid who wasn’t ever supposed to be subject to the supernatural, much less the violent side that Beacon Hills has seen.

 

Luckily Stiles is the type of person who, while slow to build friendships, is fiercely loyal and, for the most part, a no-bullshit type of person. A few conversations and literal hits over the head and Derek just feels proud to have someone so capable watching his back.

 

Stiles spots him before he quite reaches the terminal, and is waiting at the curb the moment Derek pulls up, tossing his things in the back seat before jumping into the passenger’s side. With a wide grin, he reaches over and grips Derek’s shoulder, longer fingers strong and warm. “Hey. Thanks. I really wasn’t looking forward to shelling out for a cab.”

 

Derek can’t help but settle Stiles with a side-eye and raise eyebrow of disbelief.

 

Chucking, Stiles’ hand falls away from his shoulder as he gives an animated shrug. “I don’t know. It’s midnight. You would have been well within your rights to have said, ‘Nope. Sleeping. Reap what you sow. Lie in your made bed. Take a cab.’”

 

As Stiles talks, Derek pulls them out from the curb and heads toward the highway, nose twitching at a vaguely familiar sharp, chemical sent stinging its way up his nostrils. It’s distracting, partly because the scent is so abrasive and partly because he knows he knows what it is but can’t remember, but not enough to stop talking. He hasn’t seen Stiles since summer, travel from Boston to Beacon Hills being too expensive for him to afford coming home for both holidays, and despite the fact that this is the third year of this and Derek should really be used to it by now, going five months without Stiles is hard.

 

Harder than he’d be willing to admit to anyone, and he admits to a lot these days.

 

“It’s never too late to pick you up, Stiles,” he assures.

 

Stiles laughs. “Pft. Derek. You’ll make me blush.” While he’s shifting around in the passenger’s seat the way he does to get just-right comfortable, Derek glances over and notices a flash of black on pale flesh as the front of Stile’s collar pulls down before he pushes forward and the shirt pulls back into place.

 

The scent clicks into place.

 

Sharpie.

 

“Did someone _draw_ on you?” It’s more amusing than accusing, because Stiles has become a somewhat surprisingly serious and studious student. The last time Derek smelled Sharpie on Stiles was back during the group’s freshman year when Stiles came back for summer break riding the hangover of a, and he quotes, ‘Totally, monstrously, ridiculously, grotesquely epic party.’

 

Another laugh, this one bright and loud, but there’s a slightly nervous edge to it that catches his attention. “Yeah,” Stiles admits, sounding a fair bit embarrassed. Turning toward Derek slightly, he pulls down the front of his shirt and Derek is presented with the sight of somewhat artfully drawn reindeer bouncing along Stile’s collar bone. His mouth goes dry.

 

“Holiday party. I was pretty exhausted after finals and ended up passing out early. Unfortunately, Julie decided being in my bed in pajama bottoms wasn’t a fair indication of legitimate sleeping, because I didn’t have my shirt on, so she decided to use my chest as a holiday art canvas.” Stiles releases the shirt with a chuckle, the collar bouncing back up to hide the drawing. “She’s the best roommate a guy could ask for, but she has her moments of weakness,” he laments with a sigh and a theatrical eye roll that indicates he isn’t all that frustrated or put off.

 

He starts shifting again, and with thee image of pale skin and sharp black ink still bright in his mind, Derek is hyper aware of the way Stiles grabs the bottom hem of his shirt, consciously mindful of keeping it from riding up, and Derek can’t help but wonder what piece of holiday art Stiles would be so attune to keeping out of sight.

 

It’s surreal, pulling up and parking in the Stilinski’s driveway. The jeep is there, constantly waiting for Stiles to get home, and even when Derek is picking up and dropping off, he’s rarely around long enough to put the Camero in park. Now he does though, not because he needs to, but because the itch of curiosity is tickling at him, the need to know what, no doubt hilarious and incriminating Sharpie’d image, Stiles is attempting to hide.

 

“Thanks for the ride,” Stiles breaths, genuinely grateful.

 

“I though you were arriving on the nineteenth?” He asks it like a question even though it’s not, mainly because he’s certain Stiles will revert to an old high school aged tease about stalking if he alludes to the fact that he’s memorizing everybody’s arrivals.

 

“Weather was coming in pretty fast. If I’d have stayed I might not have made it back in time for Christmas. At least, if you trust the weather man.” He chuckles and shrugs. “Thought I’d go with safe instead of sorry for once.”

 

Derek rolls his eyes. Stiles may take risks, but he never does anything that’s not safe. Well, that’s not the safer of the options given, even if they’re both bad options. “You missing anything?”

 

“Nope. We managed to push the holiday party early so I could attend, it being my party and all.” His knee bounces and his eyes dart from Derek’s to the darkness surrounding them. It would seem nervous, or even impatience, but Derek knows it’s just a mix of excitement at being home and exhaustion, the latter of which he can see in the shadows under Stiles’ eyes.

 

“Go get some sleep.”

 

With a nod, Stiles slips out of the car, his shirt riding up slighting at the back to reveal a sliver of pale, unmarked skin. Nothing exciting.

 

No. That’s wrong. Derek will admit in the privacy of his own head that getting peeks at Stiles’ skin is always a thrill. Tonight, however, Sharpie burns in his nose and so does the knowledge that Stiles has something drawn low on his stomach that is interesting and embarrassing enough to not want to show.

 

It’s killing him a little bit.

 

The back door opens and Derek turns to watch Stiles gather his things, the collar of his shirt dropping forward to reveal shadowed flesh and unperceivable dark images scattered over his chest. “Thanks again for the ride. I’m sorry if I woke you up.”

 

“It’s really not a problem. I was up anyway.”

 

Glancing up, Stiles grins. “Want to grab lunch tomorrow? I’m going to have breakfast with my dad, but he’s working during the day and Isaac doesn’t get in until three, right?”

 

Derek nods, a smirk pulling at the edges of his lips. Of course Stiles would memorize the flight itineraries. “Lunch sounds good.”

 

Despite scrambling for his duffle, and the way his shirt stretches and shifts as he throws his backpack over his shoulder, Stiles manages to keep himself covered up, though at one point he makes a rather obvious and desperate move of yanking his jacket in front of him when his shirt rides up too much. Derek averts his gaze before Stiles can glance at him, trying, for the life of him, not to look too curious or interested. The moment Stiles knows he’s curious is the moment any chance to seeing the point of shame goes to pieces.

 

As Stiles is pulling out of the back, Derek glances back on last time. “Hey.”

 

Stiles looks at him, eyebrows raised. “Hm?”

 

“Could you check the wiper on the passenger’s side for me? I think a leaf might be stuck under it.”

 

A single eyebrow arches higher than the rest, but Stiles nods. “Sure. Hold on.” Kicking the door shut, Stiles takes a moment to do a shuffling, twisting dance of gathering and shifting his gear until he has an arm somewhat free, before moving toward the front of the car and leaning over to pull up the wiper and check.

 

His t-shirt rides up, but his stomach is pressed against the hood of the car and Derek sees absolutely nothing.

 

Knuckles rap on the windshield and Derek’s eyes snap from Stiles’ stomach to his smirking features. “Nope. You’re all good.” Stepping back he gives a half wave along with, “Thanks again for the ride, see you tomorrow,” before turning around and bounding up the steps to the Stilinski porch and through the door.

 

…

…

 

Derek’s in the workshop finishing the second to last piece of the season when he hears Stiles approaching. The rhythmic crunching of dried leaves and sweeping of underbrush are indicative of a human interloper, one running at a steady, solid pace. It’s telling of just how long Derek has known Stiles that he can tell his stride even when muffled by nature and the soggy softness of the forest floor in winter. By the time he’s cleaned up enough that he won’t feel guilty for leaving, and stepped outside, Stiles is almost to the house, slowing from run to walk.

 

It’s moments like these when Derek is distinctly grateful that Stiles isn’t a wolf. Or, for that matter, than any others are around, because it’s awkward how the image of Stiles in baggy running pants and a sweat slicked v-neck shirt makes his stomach crunch like a teenager wadding up paper, or his heart stutter. He noticed it over the summer, had been hoping it might just be an ill-advised thing his body was doing, and come to the realization in the five months of contemplation that was Stiles-less that it was not. At least he’s expecting it.

 

A little bit.

 

Raising an eyebrow—because he can still judge Stiles, even if he thinks he’s hot enough to fry eggs on—he quips, “I’m not going to lunch with you like that.”

 

Stiles chuckles breathily. “Oh come on, you’ll go to lunch with me however I am.” When Derek doesn’t make to move he sighs and rolls his eyes. “Alright, I’m not going to lunch like this. I was running, and before I knew it I was practically here. So, can a guy get some water? I hear someone has a new set of glassware.”

 

Derek jerks his head to the side and they walk around to the front door. “You’re still running then?”

 

“Hello and-or duh,” is Stiles’ light-hearted retort.

 

With a faux irritated huff, Derek elbows Stiles in the side. “Seriously though.”

 

Stiles bumps him back. “Seriously though,” he mocks. “Of course I am. If the past five years have taught me anything, it’s that running is a vital aspect of the human’s relationship with the supernatural. In the sense that, it’s the most common state of being said Homosapien finds himself in when in proximity to those of supernatural descent.”

 

“You’re an idiot,” Derek sighs, but it lacks bite, made light by the way his lips betray him and curve upward into a thin smile. Pushing open the front door, Derek leads them into the living room and heads off to the kitchen, stopping when he hears Stiles halt just inside the doorway and gasp. “What’s wrong?” he asks, but when he turns around he sees Stiles staring, with wide eyes, at the massive tree in the space, decorated sparingly with white lights and red and silver balls.

 

“Holy crap, that’s beautiful.”

 

Derek smirks. “Eloquent, Stiles. You sound so educated.”

 

Shooting a mock sneer Derek’s way, Stiles’ attention slips back to the tree as he steps into the house, barely remembering to shut the door behind him. “Seriously though. _That’s_ a Christmas tree. You didn’t have one last year, and this…” he looks from the tree to Derek, grin wide and excited, “looks really good.”

 

It’s hard not to preen just the slightest under Stiles’ enthusiastic wonderment. Christmas has been the most difficult holiday for him, and this is the first year, even with the newly remodeled house, that he’s felt comfortable enough to do some decorating. To welcome Christmas back into his house and not just his life. It feels good.

 

Stiles is standing next to him now, still watching the tree, like he thinks it’s going to change or disappear or start raining Christmas miracles. He smells of earth and forest and sweat that makes the raw sent of Stiles all that much greater, and under it all the chemical sharp tang of Sharpie remains. Instantly, Derek’s curious itch is back.

 

“Actually, can you help me with something?”

 

“Hm?” Stiles hums, shooting him a sideways glance.

 

“I got a wreath yesterday to put above the fireplace, but I don’t trust centering it. Give me a hand?”

 

“Sure thing.”

 

Of course, Derek ends up hanging it as Stiles directs him in the background while chugging down a glass of ice cold water, which is absolutely not what he’d had in mind. Somehow, though, it’s satisfying in its own right.

 

…

…

 

By the next evening of the twentieth, everybody is back in town. They’ve spent the minimum allotted amount of time required with family to abandon their family homes and make their way up to Derek’s, filling his driveway with cars and his house with laughter and chatter and Christmas music over Christmas movies. Stiles still smells faintly of Sharpie, still self-conscious of the way his shirt rides up his stomach, meaning that he doesn’t let it all.

 

Between that and the pure content happiness Derek feels at not just having everyone back for the holidays, but seeing Stiles again specifically, talking in person, not just via phone or text, has him feeling jittery if not comfortably satisfied.

 

Stiles, Allison, and Lydia are the happy kind of drunk, Erica having good naturedly spiked the eggnog, full well knowing only a portion the party would be able to actually enjoy the side affects. There’s enough food that everybody reaches that point of critical mass where their bellies are so full it makes their eyelids heavy, and they turn down the Christmas music to pile in the living room and settle in to watch A Christmas Carol.

 

It’s not unusual when Stiles plops down next to him on the couch, in fact, they have all solidified their places over the years and Isaac, Derek, and Stiles long since claimed the couch. Admitantly, Isaac typically ends up sprawling over an armrest while Stiles takes a whole different approach and claims the middle so he can eventually spread and sprawl over every _body_. Tonight his feet are in Isaac’s lap and his head on Derek’s thigh, and his shirt is hiked up so the hem just barely meets the top of his jeans.

 

Derek’s not sure what he wants to do more. Kiss him, or give the shirt a good grab and suffer the consequences but victoriously get sight of whatever indignity Stiles’ roommate managed to draw on his stomach.

 

He ends up doing neither. Rejecting the first because kissing Stiles in the middle of their friends on such a perfect night feels like inviting disaster, despite the pull in his gut that tells him it’s a safe bet. Dismissing the second because he’s content having slumbering Stiles as a warm weight of drowsy sleepiness on his leg.

 

At some point he drifts off, and when he half-wakes it’s to a dark room barely lit by the white lights of the tree. The television is off, the fire doused, and everybody has retreated to the guest rooms they’ve long since claimed as their own. Stiles, however, is still stretched over the couch, turned onto his side, face buried in Derek’s hip, Derek’s hand resting on his shoulder. One of the heavy wool blankets from the trunk behind the couch is spread over him and there’s a cool-warm wet spot on Derek’s jeans that indicates Stiles has been drooling a little.

 

He doesn’t mind being drooled on, not if it’s Stiles, and he wonders if he’s gone crazy.

 

Stiles snuffs in his sleep, shifts, and rolls onto his back, eyes blink open groggily, as though having sensed Derek’s rise to consciousness. “Hm?” he murmurs.

 

Derek thinks it might actually be Stiles’ attempt at speech and a smile pulls at his lips. His hand is now on Stiles’ chest, and he moves his fingers, scratching with the pads of his fingers. “Go back to sleep,” he encourages, and his own voice is rough and thick, words barely distinguishable from one another.

 

Determined not to do what Derek tells him, Stiles shifts groggily, movements slow and jerky. Finally, his arms come out from under the blanket and he reaches up, hands wrapping around Derek’s face, and then he’s pulling. Not very hard. He’s still mostly asleep and it’s an awkward angle, but Derek lets Stiles do what he will. It’s a bit of a surprise though, to find himself bending forward until his face is inches from Stiles’, and, honestly, his back is twinging with protest. He’s not about to pull back though, not when Stiles’ lips are spreading into a wide, satisfied smile, his sleepy eyes glowing with the dim light from the tree.

 

“You’re ridiculous,” he mutters, though Derek only knows that’s what he’s saying because he knows Stiles, and then Stiles is pulling him down those last few inches and they’re kissing.

 

It’s light and soft, they’re lips dry, Stiles’ the slightest bit chapped from the frigid Boston winter he’s been submerged in, and it’s the best kiss Derek has had since he can remember.

 

Lifting Derek’s face away from his, Stiles is still grinning, now wider, eyes a more bright and alert, but still not fully awake. “’s good?”

 

With a soft grunt of affirmation, Derek says, “Eloquent,” and leans down to press another chaste kiss to Stiles’ lips. “Now move over. I like you, but not enough for my neck to feel broken tomorrow.”

 

Stiles huffs a breathy, sleepy chuckle and doesn’t so much move as let himself be man handled by Derek until he’s sandwiched between couch and Derek, who hums a note of approval at the warmth of Stiles’ body seeping into his chest.

 

Derek wakes to natural light filling the living room and Stiles sprawled over his front like a human blanket, another small cool-warm-wet spot indicating he’s been the victim of another drooling spell. Rubbing a hand up and down Stiles’ back, he chuckles, utterly embarrassed with himself, but too happy to really feel it. With a low, strangled groan, Stiles buries his head in Derek’s chest, shoving his hands under Derek’s ribs. “If this is a werewolf waking at five a.m. thing, I am out,” he yawns into Derek’s shirt, words barely comprehensible.

 

“It’s eight, and we’re making pancakes!”

 

“Is that Erica?” Stiles grumbles.

 

“And Isaac and Allison!” Erica continues with a shout.

 

With a sigh, Stiles slips his hands out from under Derek and gingerly pushes himself up, slow with grogginess and caution for sensitive bits. His hair, long since grown out, is a complete mess, sticking out all different directions, and Derek likes it, wants to see it like that more often. Wants to see Stiles as much of a mess as his hair is.

 

“What are you thinking about?” Stiles wonders, eyes narrowing in suspicion even as he pushes himself back to perch his weight on his knees and raises his arms to stretch, bending to the side and stretching out until his back cracks.

 

His shirt rides up, hitching up enough to give Derek an unobstructed view of his flat, toned stomach and the trail of dark hair that thickens and disappears under the waistband of his red Santa hat boxers, which have ridden up enough to peak out of his pants, but what’s captured Derek’s attention is the artfully drawn, and only slightly faded, image of a full bushel of mistletoe in dark black Sharpie under Stiles’ navel.

 

“Oh cr-” Stiles’ arms snap down, his shirt dropping, and when Derek looks up his eyes are wide, neck and cheeks flushed. “So…”

 

Grinning, Derek reaches up, slides a hand around the back of Stiles’ neck, and reels him in for a kiss, light and quick, and then another, licking at Stiles’ lips, running his thumb along his rough, needs-to-shave jaw until Stiles lets out a soft noise of satisfaction. Derek takes the opportunity to run his tongue along the edges of Stiles’ teeth, lick his way into the warm, wet heat of Stiles’ mouth, and then pull back because they both taste absolutely rancid.

 

Stiles’ face is twisted into a complex mixture of delight and disgust, and Derek must look the same because he just laughs.

 

Free hand sliding down between them, Derek’s fingers slip under the hem of Stiles’ shirt, run along his bare flesh until he can press the flat of his hand to Stiles’ stomach. Smirking, he says, “We’ll talk about this proposition later,” and lets out a low chuckle when Stiles’ blush comes back full force.

**Author's Note:**

> In response to the Tumblr Prompt: _Stiles gets drunk with his friends and wakes up and someone has drawn mistletoe below his navel in permanent marker. Derek can smell the ink and curiosity about what the joke is more than anything (though he'd never admit it) forces him to put Stiles in a bunch of ridiculous positions where his shirt might ride up enough so Derek can see what is drawn on it._
> 
> Follow me on [Tumblr](rlnerdgirl.tumblr.com) for quick and easy updates on what I'm writing now!


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